


The Smith and the King

by thewalrus_said



Series: The Smith and the King [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: King/Blacksmith AU, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 13:08:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4180965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewalrus_said/pseuds/thewalrus_said
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D’Artagnan laughed, clapped his father on the shoulder, and then undid the lock on the window and raised the sash. “What on earth are you doing?” his father asked.</p><p>“It’s very important that I go down this ladder this instant. Vital business for the crown, can’t be helped.”</p><p>“And why this instant?” His father crossed his arms.</p><p>“Because this instant is when I hear the ministers coming back.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Smith and the King

**Author's Note:**

> I had no idea how to title or summarize this. Still don't.
> 
> This has been sitting in my drive for far too long, so I dusted it off. Based on a few pictures of Pasqualino and Charles being adorable, and fed by the Tumblr fandom. Unbetaed.

D’Artagnan crossed his eyes for the fifty-second time in the past two hours. It had started as mild way to amuse himself while his counselors talked and put papers in front of him to sign, but around the twentieth time d’Artagnan had become more daring. The past ten times had occurred while Richelieu was making direct eye contact. D’Artagnan strongly suspected the man hadn’t even noticed, as he put another spreadsheet full of agricultural statistics and resultant crop costs in front of his king.

His father had noticed, however, and finally kicked him sharply under the table. D’Artagnan’s eyes uncrossed reflexively and he frowned at the older man.

“Sire?” Richelieu asked, with the air of a long-suffering man who has posed the same question twenty times. Unfortunately for him, d’Artagnan could cross his eyes and pay attention at the same time.

“You have yet to ask me anything, Richelieu, don’t sound so impatient.” D’Artagnan looked down at the stack of papers in front of him. “However, I can guess what it is you want to ask. The crops in the south field are failing, I see, rather epically. In addition to a small subsidy to help them through this year, why don’t we send a team down to test the soil? Historically the south has required a more strict rotation cycle than other parts of the kingdom - it may have slipped in recent years. Take the money from the agriculture budget, we have a surplus this year.”

Richelieu bowed. “As you say, sire.” He gathered up the papers. “I’ll have these bound and delivered to your office, as usual. What say we take a short break and return in, say, five minutes for the defense meeting?”

D’Artagnan nodded, and the rest of the ministers rose. D’Artagnan’s father, once the room had cleared out some, grabbed the edge of D’Artagnan’s scarf and tugged him over to a deserted window. “That was very rude.”

“Do you suppose he noticed, then? He didn’t even twitch, I was sure he was oblivious.”

“He noticed, Charles. He notices everything, that is his job.”

“His job is Minister for Agriculture.” At his father’s look, d’Artagnan sighed and looked out the window. “Okay, fine, you’re right. But in fairness, I was paying attention. I’m getting quite good at reading with my eyes crossed.” His eyes found the conveniently-placed ladder, resting just under the windowsill, which he had noticed on the way in. He was half-convinced that Richelieu had asked the gardener to leave it there just to torment him.

“Not the point, Charles. We owe Richelieu much of our success as a kingdom, you know that.”

D’Artagnan cast another look at the ladder. “He doesn’t respect me. He thinks you should still be king. And he’s right, you know. You’re still hale and smart, there’s no reason you should have abdicated so soon, or at all.”

“Oh, my son.” D’Artagnan’s father placed both hands on his son’s shoulders. “There is a very good reason why I stepped down.”

“Why’s that, then?”

“I was sick of the ruddy paperwork.”

D’Artagnan laughed, clapped his father on the shoulder, and then undid the lock on the window and raised the sash. “What on earth are you doing?” his father asked.

“It’s very important that I go down this ladder this instant. Vital business for the crown, can’t be helped.”

“And why this instant?” His father crossed his arms.

“Because this instant is when I hear the ministers coming back.” D’Artagnan grinned at his father, who could not keep the twinkle out of his own eye. “There’s only the defense bit left. You’re still in charge of that, after all, and I do so hate feeling redundant.” With that, he swung out of the window and began climbing down.

“How regal,” his father called down, before shutting the window again and locking it. D’Artagnan huffed a laugh and jumped the rest of the way down.

He took the ladder with him, carrying it braced against his side the short walk to the gardener's shed. “Left this outside a window this morning, Fleur!” he called to the small woman wrestling with a length of hose in the far corner.

“Did I, Your Majesty? Terribly sorry. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,” she called back.

“Oh no, quite the opposite. It came in handy,” he said. She returned his smile and bowed her head, the rest of her employed coiling the hose, and he took his leave.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark figure swooping like an owl across the lawn. He doubled back and bolted in the opposite direction, swinging through the nearest open door. It turned out to be the entrance to the smithy, and he dove behind the nearest counter before realizing that the smithy was not deserted. “I’m not here,” d’Artagnan hissed to the man staring at him with a confused expression on his face.

Richelieu strode through the door a moment later. “You there, what is your name?”

“Porthos, sir,” the man said, with a respectful bow.

“Porthos, you haven’t seen the King sneaking about, have you?”

D’Artagnan shook his head, begging with his eyes - to no avail, as Porthos was still facing the door and d’Artagnan was left to plead to his shoulder.

Quite a set of shoulders, too, his mind supplied. He shook his head again, this time to clear the ill-timed, if accurate, conclusion.

“No, sir,” Porthos answered, head still bowed. “No kings here. No one here at all, actually, save you and me.”

“Are you sure?” D’Artagnan could see Richelieu’s shadow moving as he peered about.

“Quite sure, sir. Nothing enters my smithy without my seeing it. I even set up my bellows to watch the door in case of intruders.” Porthos gestured to said equipment, his impressive shoulders flexing under his rough shirt.

“Do you get many intruders, in a smithy?” Richelieu asked.

“Every now and again. Lots of metal here, sir, that’ll sell well, and everyone’s looking for hammers and tongs. Better safe than sorry.”

“Quite right.” Richelieu’s shadow retreated. “Well, if you see the King, would you be so kind as to inform him that he left our meeting a trifle early, and I would be obliged if he would return?”

“Yes, sir.” Porthos bowed again, and d’Artagnan heard the sound of retreating footsteps. After a moment, Porthos caught his eye. “He’s gone now, sire.”

“Excellent,” d’Artagnan said, unfolding himself and dusting the dirt off his pants. “I’m in your debt, Porthos.”

“No trouble at all. I figure the king’s got a good reason for squatting in the dirt hiding from his ministers.”

“I do, if you consider avoiding paperwork a good reason.” D’Artagnan finished brushing himself off and took a look around.

“Happy to help with that.” Porthos grinned at him, and d’Artagnan felt his knees go a little weak.

“What’s your favorite type of sandwich, Porthos?” he blurted out.

“My favorite sandwich, sire?” Porthos considered it. “I’m partial to a good ham sandwich, I suppose. Ham and a nice cheddar.”

“Excellent,” d’Artagnan said. “Good to know, an excellent choice.” He stepped forward and held out his hand. “Thanks again for your help.”

Porthos quirked his eyebrow but shook the proffered hand, blessedly making no moves towards bowing. “My pleasure, sire.”

D’Artagnan made his slow way back to the castle by means of the stairs, and pretended to be surprised when Richelieu swooped down upon him in a matter of seconds. “I’m afraid we still have some meeting left, sire,” he said, extending his arm upward towards the stairs. “You left ever so slightly too soon.”

“Did I really? How embarrassing.”

\------------

The next morning, d’Artagnan slipped into the kitchens after breakfast. “Aramis, come here,” he said to the head chef, whom he found sitting on a windowsill with a loaf of bread and a book of poetry. “I need to knight you for services to the crown. Your eggs are splendid.”

“You flatter me, my king,” Aramis replied, sweeping an elegant seated bow. “I only help them to bring out the perfection they already have inside.”

“Beautifully put.” D’Artagnan leaned over to look at Aramis’ book. “Spanish poetry, I see. Is there a lady in mind? Or a gentleman?”

“That would be telling, sire.” Aramis placed a paper bookmark against his page and closed the book. “What can I do for you this morning?”

“I need a packed lunch for this afternoon, if it’s not too much trouble,” d’Artagnan said. “Something for me, and your finest ham sandwich as well, please.”

“Hmm. Cheese?”

“Cheddar, I think it was.”

“Aha. Bringing lunch for our blacksmith, I see.” Aramis tipped him a knowing smile.

“You can’t possibly have figured that out from a sandwich order.”

“Never doubt my knowledge of the palace’s tastes, my king. It will only leave you astounded and me insulted, and we neither of us suit those emotions.” Aramis swung off the windowsill. “Do you have a preference for your half of the meal?”

“Surprise me,” d’Artagnan said, already backing away. “I’ll be back for it at half-past noon, will that be alright?”

“That will be splendid. Now shoo, I have a masterpiece to create.” Aramis waved a hand and took a bite of his bread, and d’Artagnan slipped out of Aramis’ domain.

He had taken barely five steps before a looming shape blocked his way. “Ah, Athos! You’re back. How was your day off?”

“It was wonderful. Very peaceful. I hear it was not so for you.” D’Artagnan’s bodyguard stood with his arms crossed, eyebrow raised.

“Richelieu got to you already? Does that man sleep?”

“Treville, actually. You were spotted sneaking out of the castle by an open window, for heaven's’ sake, and you weren’t found for another hour. Did you think I wouldn’t hear about it?”

D’Artagnan huffed and headed for the stairs, Athos following on his heels. “I was only in the smithy.” He winced and paused, turning to Athos. “Don’t repeat that, Richelieu looked for me there and I don’t want to get the blacksmith in trouble.”

“I won’t. We’ve been through three smiths in the past six years, and I like Porthos.”

“How does everyone here know Porthos but me?” D’Artagnan got no answer but an unreadable hum from Athos, and they went along in silence.

Four hours later, d’Artagnan slipped back down into the kitchens, Athos at his back. Aramis pressed a basket into his hands, murmured, “Good luck,” and swept him out the back door into the garden.

“He could have used a less stereotypical basket,” d’Artagnan said, frowning at it.

“Check inside. I’ll bet there’s a red and white checked blanket.” Athos’ dry tone made d’Artagnan snort.

The smithy door was standing open again, and d’Artagnan swung inside and knocked on the frame. Porthos looked up from the back, where he was standing at a rough sink, wiping his hands dry on a rag. “Hiding again, sire?”

“Sadly no, I’ve got supervision with me today.” Athos obligingly peered into the smithy; Porthos nodded in greeting. D’Artagnan lifted the basket. “Lunch for my savior?”

Porthos looked around the smithy for a moment, then down at himself. “I’m hardly dressed for the occasion.”

This was technically true - Porthos was in a sleeveless white shirt that was covered in soot, and dark, dingy jeans. D’Artagnan didn’t mind in the least. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Porthos grinned at that. “Alright then. I was just about to go harass Aramis for food anyway.” He came towards the door and took a jacket hanging from a nearby hook. “Is that his handiwork?” he asked, nodding towards the basket.

“Who else would provide such a basket?”

“Bet there’s a blanket in it.” Porthos stepped out into the light and blinked for a moment. “Did you have a place in mind to eat?”

“Nowhere in particular, why?”

“Follow me, then.” Porthos nodded again to Athos, who fell into step behind D’Artagnan as Porthos led them away and to the left.

They walked for a few minutes in silence, back around towards the garden. Porthos led them past it and on for another minute, before halting at an incongruous patch of lawn. “Here we are.”

D’Artagnan looked at Athos, who shrugged almost imperceptibly, then nodded and put the basket down. “Alright then.”

There was indeed a blanket laid over the food inside; Porthos and d’Artagnan unfolded it and spread it out, before dropping into seated positions. As soon as he sat, d’Artagnan realized why Porthos had led them there. “This is the smoothest ground I’ve ever sat on.”

“I have no idea why it’s so flat just here,” Porthos confessed. “Lots of theories, but no answers. I come here to nap in the afternoons sometimes. Let’s have the basket, then.”

Athos settled himself a respectable distance away, although d’Artagnan knew from experience the man could be at his side in a mere second if he needed to be. Porthos extracted his sandwich first, beautifully wrapped in a napkin, and handed a second parcel to d’Artagnan. A third was labeled Athos, and was delivered to the man in question. There were homemade potato chips as well, in a covered bowl, and two large bottles of water. “There’s a note,” d’Artagnan said, pulling it out from the bottom of the basket. “‘Forgive the lack of wine, but this is lunch, not dinner, after all.’ That man is impossible,” he said, dropping the paper back into the basket.

“He’s always been that way,” Porthos said. At d’Artagnan’s eyebrow, he clarified, “We served together. Every other week he’d have some harebrained dramatic scheme or other, for seduction purposes, or just for fun. Kept everything interesting.”

“I’m sure.” D’Artagnan let Porthos devour a large chunk of sandwich before asking, “When did you serve? I know Aramis came to us three years ago.”

“I got out four years ago. Invalided out, actually.” Porthos pointed to his eye, where d’Artagnan noticed a faint scar. “Turned out fine, but they thought I might lose the eye for a while.”

“What’ve you been doing since then?”

“Wandering, mostly. Went to stay with some old friends for a bit, but that didn’t work out. I stayed with my sister after that, and then came here four months ago.” He took another bite, and d’Artagnan let the subject drop.

They finished the food in near-silence after that, save for crunching and appreciative noises. D’Artagnan finished off his wrap and flopped backwards on the blanket, idly munching on chips. Porthos finished a few minutes later, and leaned back onto one hand, looking up at the sky.

“That cloud looks almost more like an owl than Richelieu does,” d’Artagnan said, pointing up at the cloud in question.

Porthos snorted, shading his eyes. “I should probably get back to work, sire.”

D’Artagnan winced; out of the corner of his eye he saw Athos react to the movement, turning to look at him. He shook his head at Athos. “Of course,” he said to Porthos, sitting up. “I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

“I can help you with the blanket -” Porthos began.

D’Artagnan waved a hand. “Athos and I can handle it. You go on.”

“Oh. If you’re sure.” Porthos stood, looking down at d’Artagnan and looking awkward. “Thank you for lunch, sire.”

“Thank you for joining me,” d’Artagnan replied with a smile. Porthos returned it and turned to go, nodding a farewell to Athos as he passed.

“It’s a wonder your necks don’t fall off, with all that respectful nodding,” d’Artagnan muttered, as Athos came over to help him clean up. Athos remained tactfully silent.

In fact, neither of them said anything all throughout the folding of the blanket, the repacking of the basket, and the walk back to the kitchen. Aramis received them with his usual ebullience, which helped shift some of d’Artagnan’s discomfort. “How did it go?” the chef asked.

“As well as could perhaps be expected, with such fare,” d’Artagnan teased him.

“So, swimmingly, then? Will there be a second outing I should prepare for?”

“If there is, I will let you know, but it isn’t likely.”

Aramis frowned at him. There was a question in the set of his brows, but d’Artagnan turned away before he could ask it.

Athos let him stew until they were safely in the elevator on the way to d’Artagnan’s study, and then he said, “Just for my own clarification, sir, what was the nature of this afternoon’s luncheon?”

D’Artagnan hummed noncommittally. “Lunch with a would-be friend, I think.”

“I see.” Athos paused. “So, not a date, then?”

D’Artagnan barked a laugh. “Lets go with no - it would have been a pathetic one if it were.”

“As you say, sir.”

\------------

“Really, Athos, it’s not that big a deal,” d’Artagnan said, slowing to a stop and ducking behind the nearest building for cover. “I’m entitled to a bit of fresh air and exercise every now and again, there’s no fault in that.”

Athos slid in next to him, leaning against the wall. “Then why are you sneaking around, like a child into the kitchen at night?”

“Because no one agrees with me.” D’Artagnan looked around, getting his bearings for a moment, before realizing where he was. “Oh.”

“Yes, you appear to be making a habit of running to the smithy in times of trouble,” Athos remarked, his tone so dry d’Artagnan thought he could spark a fire off it.

“Don’t be like that, it wasn’t on purpose.” D’Artagnan peered in through a nearby window. He could see a broad back, arms bared to the shoulder, and a bowed head.

“Sure it wasn’t.” He turned back to Athos to find a raised eyebrow on the other man’s face. “If you’re going to stare, I insist you do it while he’s aware of it. Go inside.”

D’Artagnan considered protesting that he hadn’t been staring, decided against it, and tested the back door of the smithy. It was unlocked. Porthos looked up and around as d’Artagnan and Athos entered. “Sorry to disturb you like this again,” d’Artagnan started.

“Good thing you came now and not half an hour ago,” Porthos said, expression unreadable for another moment before creasing into a smile.

“Was the place on fire then?” Athos asked. He ran a hand over the nearby bellows, examining the ash that came off on his hand.

“Nah. There was a bat in here, I was chasing it around like a lunatic. Highly undignified.” Porthos grinned a little wider at d’Artagnan’s burst of laughter.

“Sorry to have missed it.” D’Artagnan looked around the smithy. It was messier than he remembered, tools piled on top of the toolbox, an unwieldy pile of horseshoes on the table. “You’ve been busy lately,” he said, nodding to the horseshoes.

“Hmm? Oh, not terribly,” Porthos said, following his gaze. “Just busy work that I haven’t cleaned up. I was meaning to do that today, actually.”

“Can I help?”

The question caught Porthos off-guard. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and looked to Athos. “Is that allowed?”

“Oh, very little of what he does is actually allowed,” Athos said breezily. “I’ve given up trying to stop him by this point, it never ends well. Tantrums,” he added.

“That was one time, and I was seven,” d’Artagnan said, and then thought better of it. “No, actually, you’re right, I’m awful. Continue allowing me to do as I please or I shall rain fire and brimstone upon you.”

Porthos laughed, full-bodied and deep, making d’Artagnan gulp. “Well, if you’re serious about it, I could use some help.”

“Put me to work. Athos too, if mindless brawn is needed.”

Athos frowned at him; Porthos just laughed again. “I can supply all the mindless brawn we need, I think. Best to keep Athos free in case something falls on you unexpectedly.”

“You’d be surprised how often that happens,” d’Artagnan remarked, going over to the tool pile and beginning to sort through them. “Just last month a dead tree fell on me.”

“How’d that happen?”

“Athos says it was rotted through and meant to be cut down in a week anyway. Personally, I think the squirrels are gunning for me. You get into one human-on-squirrel wrestling match as a child and you’ve got a species full of enemies for life.”

It was another two hours before the smithy was back to Porthos’ satisfaction. The tools had been sorted, cleaned, and put back; the horseshoes were arranged by size and stowed in a large cupboard along the far wall; the surfaces were free of dust, ash, and bits of scrap metal. Athos had excused himself an hour prior, after extracting a promise from Porthos to look after d’Artagnan, promising to come back for him by sundown and drag him back to the castle if necessary. The sun was just dipping below the horizon and d’Artagnan was putting the last rag away when he scraped his hand on a nail sticking out from the wall by the sink.

“Damn, damn, shit,” he hissed, pushing his hand over the sink and turning the water on. Porthos was at his side in an instant.

“Let’s have a look at that,” Porthos said, pulling his hand out from under the stream. The gash was long, stretching across his palm, and was bleeding profusely. “I’ve seen worse. What happened?” he asked, pulling a cloth from the wall and pressing it to the wound.

“There’s a nail over there,” d’Artagnan said, nodding. “Caught my hand on it just now.”

Porthos put d’Artagnan’s free hand over the cloth. “Press down there,” he said, and then went to look at the nail. “There she is,” he said, reaching out to touch the offending nail. He grabbed a hammer from the toolbox and pounded the nail flat in two blows. He rubbed the flat of his thumb over it, gave it another solid hit, and put the hammer back. “Won’t catch anyone else unawares now. Have you had your tetanus shots?”

“Had a booster last year, I’ll be fine. It just stings.” D’Artagnan lifted the cloth off his hand. “I think the bleeding’s slowing down.”

Porthos took his hand again and inspected it. “I think you’re right. Should be able to bandage it now. Want to do it here or hustle back to the palace?”

“Do you mind if I patch it up here? The doctor’s probably at dinner and I hate to disturb her while she’s eating. She gets cranky.”

“Woman after my own heart.” Porthos had the first aid kit out from under the sink in a moment, and pulled out a butterfly bandage and a roll of gauze. “Let’s see that hand now.”

Porthos’ touch was gentle on d’Artagnan’s skin, turning his wrist this way and that as he bandaged and covered the wound. The flush of adrenaline was dying down now, and d’Artagnan was very aware of how close Porthos was to him. Porthos talked as he worked, and d’Artagnan could tell when he realized it as well, from the hitch in his voice.

Porthos tucked the edge of the gauze under itself, hand lingering on d’Artagnan’s wrist. “All better?” d’Artagnan asked, voice low.

“Not quite,” Porthos said, then dipped his head and kissed d’Artagnan’s palm, right over the cut. D’Artagnan’s breath froze in his throat for a minute, and then Porthos looked up at him, eyes wide.

“That should do it,” d’Artagnan said, voice even lower than before, and reached out his uninjured hand. Before he could touch Porthos’ face, he heard Athos clear his throat from the doorway.

Porthos jumped away as d’Artagnan spun around. “Ah, Athos. Coming to take me away?”

“I’m afraid so. Your father wants you to join him for dinner. You should have time to clean up and change if we go now.” Athos’ face was a mask of blankness as he extended a hand to usher d’Artagnan out. D’Artagnan looked at Porthos, but the other man was hunched over the sink, running hot water into the basin over the bloodied cloth. He turned and left the smithy, Athos on his heels.

He made it twenty steps before he stopped and patted his pockets. “Damn, I’ve forgotten my phone. I put it down while we were cleaning. I’ll just be a sec,” he said to Athos, turning before Athos could stop him and running back.

Porthos had shut the water off when d’Artagnan barrelled through the door. “Forgot something,” d’Artagnan said. Porthos’ eyes darkened with understanding just before d’Artagnan threw himself at him.

The kiss was quite possibly the worst one d’Artagnan had ever had, in terms of technique. His nose bumped forcefully against Porthos’ and their teeth clashed painfully; it ended quickly, when d’Artagnan reached up for Porthos’ neck with his injured hand and let out a gasp. Porthos pulled him back in, his own hands coming up to tilt d’Artagnan’s face to a better angle, and d’Artagnan balled his unhurt fist into the material of Porthos’ shirt.

They clung to each other for ten seconds, twenty, thirty, and then d’Artagnan pulled away. “I have to go,” he whispered.

Porthos kissed his forehead, then released him. “Go. Come back soon.” D’Artagnan stole another quick kiss and then left him, pulling his phone out of his pocket and waving it at Athos, who was waiting for him, arms crossed.

“Found it! It got mixed in with the horseshoes somehow, not sure how that happened.” D’Artagnan shoved the phone back into his pocket and they set off again.

“You’re beaming,” Athos observed after a few seconds of silence.

“Happy I didn’t lose my phone, that’s all.” D’Artagnan grinned over his shoulder at Athos. “That would have been bad.”

“Yes, it would have been.” Athos’ tone was flat, and made d’Artagnan want to rub the back of his hand over his mouth. “You should be careful about that.” Another few seconds passed. “What happened to your hand?”

“Cut it on a nail. It’s fine, it’s not deep and I had my tetanus booster last year. Porthos patched me up, I didn’t want to run back and get Ninon from her dinner. You know how she gets. I’ll go after I eat.”

Athos said nothing, just opened the door of the castle and followed d’Artagnan inside.


End file.
